


An Arrival

by CopperCaravan



Series: The Bonds of Matrimony [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCaravan/pseuds/CopperCaravan
Summary: Iseult Fjóludóttir and Justicar Ondolemar are forced into a political marriage. Enter awkwardness, politics, a few assassination attempts between friends, the buff housecarl. Bad Romance Tropes ensue. Wuthering Rocks. The Reach and Flexibility. Pride and Prejudice. The Justicar's Wife. Fifty Shades of Dragons. Don't Go Karth-Wastin' My Heart. The Markarth Letters. I could go on but I'll spare us all.





	An Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> You ever think "Ok, a Victorian-esque cross-class angsty romance, but in Skyrim"? No? That's probably because you're a more reasonable person than I am.

 

 

**Ondolemar**

His Lordship, High Justicar Ondolemar Elsinian is not pleased to be in Skyrim—particularly not in Markarth. The whole of this place is frozen: the bracing chill of the near on constant wind, the slick stones rising up high all around, the abhorrent mush that is the ever-melting and ever-replenishing snow covering the ground. Not to mention the icy stares and icier attitudes of the natives! What he would give to be back home, warm in the balmy breezes of Alinor. Paperwork, politics, his insufferable father—anything to be away from this frozen hell!

And while he does, of course, take his responsibilities to the Divines and to the Dominion very seriously, there is pathetically little reason why he should be fulfilling those duties here, in Skyrim, while his elder brother is free to romp about the citadels of the Isles. That pathetic reason being not the civil war raging in the province, oh no; rather, it is his father’s demented idea of treaty, of peace, of “exalting mankind to their highest potential.” Rubbish. As if these people—Nords, Bretons, Forsworn, what have you—could ever put aside all that holds them back. As if they could truly raise themselves up to be on par with mer. He could spend the rest of his days on the drudgery that is cleansing Skyrim of its heathenism and they would be no better off. No, he’s well aware that this whole project is meant to appease the politicians of the Dominion and his posting meant to appease him. He is merely a convenient pawn for his father’s politics. High Justicar, “Savior of Skyrim,” is simply _it._ The Final Stop.

Ondolemar looks down at his plate—clean, but well tarnished with age. Bread, warm from the ovens, but coarse and sandy with Skyrim’s grains. Potatoes ground and tossed into a salted hash. Thick slabs of ham, freshly butchered this morning. Glass goblets filled to the brim with bitter wine—closer to watered down ale than the sweet, fragrant wines of Summerset. All this fit for their Jarls, fit for their palaces. And still merely a pitiful display of poverty and barbarism.

He shoves himself away from his place at the Jarl’s table, barely deigning to dip his head in courtesy to everyone else seated around the table. “I am feeling unwell,” he says shortly, already turned away. “I shall retire to my room for the night.”

His spirit dips a bit lower, knowing only a stone slab with a thin cot awaits him—a cage of ice and earth now but, soon, another kind of cage altogether. From the moment he stepped foot in this city, the opening and closing of that gate has brought him nothing but grief. This is not a cycle soon to be broken, it seems.

 

***

 

**Iseult**

Iseult takes in the walls of Markarth from atop her horse. A bit intimidating, perhaps, but she keeps her back straight, very well aware of her posture, her countenance, her raiment, her everything. If they’ve any sense, they will have been watching her for some time now.

And once she enters through that gate, who can say how long until she will exit again?

As Jordis’ horse ambles up beside hers, she tightens her grip on the reins of her own, though she is careful not to actually move her hands. A Nord with no proper command over his horse is hardly a Nord, after all. And she is already hardly a Nord.

“When you return,” she begins, not taking her eyes off the gate, “be sure to tell Mother that everything went smoothly.”

“Of course, my lady,” Jordis answers, only mildly placatingly.

“And tell her we were warmly welcomed by the Jarl and his court. That cousin Thongvor is doing very well and sends his best. That you met my betrothed, though only briefly for his duties kept him quite busy. Make you sure you mention that he was polite and seems a kind man, if a bit uncertain of the cultural niceties of Skyrim. She won’t believe it went _too_ perfectly.”

Jordis laughs. “Would you like me to invent a handmaiden as well? Perhaps I can spin a tale of love at first sight—the bards would adore it. Lady Fjóla could recount it to Viarmo; Solitude could celebrate your marriage with song as often as the effigy burning.”

Iseult stops herself from twisting her mouth in distaste. It won’t do for anyone spying to see her as anything but perfectly pleasant. “You know I dislike lying to her,” she says, pausing to dismount. She swings her leg over the saddle, though she is careful to remember her lessons and moves as elegantly as possible before hopping down. The impact sends up the tiniest _poof_ of dust around her boots, but mostly it just hurts her knees. The ground is much harder here—so much stone. She’ll have to remember to account for that, bend her knees a bit more.

“I only want her to be happy, Jordis. You know how she’ll mope if she thinks I’m unhappy here.”

“I know, my lady.” There is no placating tone now. Jordis, having served the family these last several years, has grown probably as fond of Lady Fjólta as her own daughter. She swiftly dismounts—without the poise (or the need for it) that Iseult utilized. “It’s a wonder you talked her down from coming with you, though I’m happy for it. I don’t know that the… air in Markarth would be for her health.”

Iseult thinks of Thongvar and his kin— _her_ kin, her mother’s kin. The Silver-Bloods are friendly enough with their own so long as their own stay friendly in kind. Political marriages to their political enemies aren’t something they will likely consider “in kind.” Truthfully, she’s never met that side of her mother’s family, distant as they are, but she wagers the scales were never in her favor, half-blood that she is.

“I suspect you are right.”

With that said, the time for chatter ends with the two of them ushering their mounts to the stable.

“See them fussed, fed, and cleaned,” Iseult says, handing the reins over the man by the gate. He gives her a strange look, one she’s quite used to. Her ears are covered, however, so she knows that he, like everyone else who looks at her that way, can’t be quite certain he isn’t just looking at another Nord.

“You planning on paying for that?” His eyes remain narrow, though he lowers his gaze from her face to the rest of her. Either he hasn’t been told—an oversight or a slight, she can’t be sure—or he has been told, making this just one more of her tests.

“I am Lady Iseult Fjóludóttir,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height. It isn’t much, but as the saying goes: a woman must do twice as much to earn half the respect. She’s learned her lessons well. Solitude may be more amenable to her particular circumstances, but that hasn’t sheltered her from bigotry in its many forms. “Thane of Solitude and Ambassador to Markarth, Jarl Igmund, and the Aldmerri Dominion,” she adds, her face impassive. “And I will see my horses _fussed, fed, and cleaned._ Is that understood?”

He hesitates, likely along the line of disbelief, before acquiescing as gracefully as is still possible.

_Meaning he_ hasn’t _been told we’re coming._

Still, that’s no reason to assume nobody else knows. Even if no one but Igmund and Thongvor are aware of her arrival, she must be at her best. She nods her head stiffly, turns on her heel, and walks determinedly toward the gate, Jordis only a step behind her.

The guards simply look the two of them over before nodding them inside and she opens the gate on her own, without ceremony or greeting. As her forearms strain just the slightest bit to push the heavy door aside, she thinks this may not be so bad after all.

 

***

 

**Argis**

Argis has served one Thane since swearing his oath to the court of Jarl Igmund. Thane Torbold the Brash may have earned his name in his youth but in his old age, he mostly enjoyed the comforts of a warm hearth, a warm bed, and a warm meal. When he passed about two years back, Argis was left without a liege. The court provided him with a stipend, which he often sent home to his parents, and a bed in the Keep, which he often slept in alone.

It’s not been the most exciting life thus far, but it’s been comfortable enough.

He’s more than ready to get back in the thick of things, to get back to doing the kind of work that set him apart as a warrior of renown in the first place, but he’s not sure he’s ready to devote his life—in every sense—to some visiting Solitude dignitary. It’s one thing to raise a sword for somebody who knows the value of it, for somebody who cares one way or another if you fall, but for some Solitude priss? He’s not real keen on that, oath or no oath.

Still, he’s not about to say that to the Jarl and he’d rather die in the wilds trying to procure some piece of jewelry or fancy wine than to be exiled from the court for forsaking his sworn duty. His parents would be ashamed; his brother, too. He’d be a blight on the name he’s worked so hard to raise up.

So he squares his shoulders and grits his teeth and waits with the other, less important staff for Markarth’s new “ambassador” to make her way up to the Jarl’s throne.

And she does.

If not for the finery, he’d think she was the handmaid or the bodyguard because she pulls those heavy doors open all on her own, with her shieldmaiden following behind. It’s not an introduction typical of the dignitaries he’s known, not that he’s known all that many.

She marches up the stone steps, back stiff as a board, and stands before the Jarl, one nod of her head taking the place of the usual bowing and grovelling. She’s got the light hair and fair skin of a Nord, but there’s something about her face maybe—a shrewdness to her eyes, an angle to her cheeks—that makes her look… different. He can’t quite place it.

But more interesting than her are the reactions she’s garnering. The Jarl is pleased enough to have her, gracing them all with a rare round of laughter and open arms to welcome her into the fold.

“Lady Iseult,” Igmund says, barking it out like she’s a long time war-sworn sister-in-arms. “I am pleased that you’ve arrived! I trust your journey was as pleasant as the roads allow these days?”

She nods, more demurely than he would have expected just from looking at her, and speaks. “My Jarl, I thank you for your welcome. My shieldmaiden and I had quite the journey through your lands; the Reach is more beautiful than I had imagined.”

“She does have a harsh beauty about her, yes. Now,” he says, clapping his hands together once, as though he is ready to get hard to work. “I suspect you are both weary and ready for a warm meal and a warm bed, yes? I’ve had my steward prepare your new home and you are, of course, invited to dine with me this evening. Justicar Ondolemar should be joining us as well.”

“Thank you, my Jarl; Jordis and I greatly appreciate your courtesy.”

Proper as any pampered politician ever is, Argis supposes. If he has any luck, she at least won’t send him to his death within the week, though he’s learned not to trust much to the whims of “more important” people than himself.

“And your housecarl, Argis, will obviously assist you in whatever manner you require.”

Igmund gestures to him and, at the sound of his name, having gotten a bit lost in his own thoughts, Argis looks directly at her. At first, he’s only looking at her face so closely to figure out what’s just that little bit _off_ about it, but having held eye contact for longer than is polite, he coughs and covers his mouth with his fist.

“At your service, my lady,” he stammers, realizing he may have already backed himself into a corner.

She only nods, sharp eyes still measuring him up, before turning back to Igmund as though Argis isn’t nearly enough to hold her attention. He’s not unused to that.

“My gratitude, again, my Jarl. If I may, I would like to briefly retire to the home you have so generously offered so I may prepare for dinner. It would not do to greet your table with road weary attire.”

“Of course, of course! Argis!” Igmund doesn’t turn to him so much as gesture to him vaguely once again. “Accompany Lady Iseult to Vlindrel Hall; see to it that she has everything she needs.”

He bows in affirmation. “Yes, my Jarl.”

As if he would respond differently.

He bows his head, once more, to Lady Iseult as he passes her to lead her from Understone Keep and he thinks he hears her, quite low, say the words “my thanks.”


End file.
